New to Paris
by bohemiankat
Summary: Enjolras has just arrived in Paris, and he's a little lost...
1. Lost

A/N: I don't own any of the characters, please, don't sue me. Also, if you like the story, please review. I'm not sure why I began writing this, but if enough people want me to, I may continue it. Enjoy!  
  
Buried under a teetering stack of textbooks, the young student made his way through the  
  
crowds of people congregating in front of the university. "'Scuse me, monsieur. Do you happen  
  
to know the way to the classroom of Professor Blondeau?"  
  
"Yes, it's- say, you're new, aren't you?"  
  
"I am, monsieur."  
  
"First time in Paris?" The young man, little more than a lost, frightened boy, nodded his  
  
head, and a wisp of thin blond hair fell in his eyes. "Well, come along. Blondeau will have your  
  
name erased if you don't hurry along. He's been known to do that, y'know. It's happened to  
  
friends of mine before. I am called Bossuet. And you are, little one?"  
  
"Enjolras."  
  
"No first name?"  
  
"Pardieu, but I did not hear yours." He shot back. Enjolras followed the one called  
  
Bossuet through the crowds of people, careful not to upset the monumental tower of books before  
  
him.  
  
"Fair enough. Where're you from, Enjolras?"  
  
"South of here. You?"  
  
"Paris. If you like, I can show you around, introduce you to some of my friends. What  
  
do you say?"  
  
"I say, that sounds fine, monsieur. The more people I know, the better. Merci." 


	2. Introductions

A/N: I'm sorry about the formatting of the first chapter. My computer is being evil. If anyone has any suggestions for correcting this problem, please let me know.  
  
A large banner hung from one of the building's windows proclaimed the words "Café Musain," in big black lettering. Enjolras stood, staring admiringly up at it. "Are you going in, or shall we sit here and gawk at the windows all day, hmm?" As if to answer Bossuet's question, Enjolras resolutely approached the heavy wooden door and nudged it open with the toe of his shoe.  
  
Once inside the café, Enjolras squinted his eyes, partly to keep them from watering at all the smoke, and partly to help them adjust to the dim light. He could barely see Bossuet, who was up ahead, chatting with a waitress. "The back room, please, Louison."  
  
"Anything for you, Monsieur L'aigle. Messieurs Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly are expecting you." Louison smiled pleasantly and ushered them inside a hallway, running between the main café and secluded back room. "L'aigle!" Enjolras interrogated the older student. "You told me your name was Bossuet. And another thing. Why are they expecting you?" He was abruptly cut off.  
  
"No, you misunderstand. I'm descended from a certain Lesgueles, and somehow, my surname was shortened to Lesgle, then to L'aigle. Don't ask why, I'm in no mood to tell a long story. I am sometimes called Bossuet. And as to the other question, you'll see." He knocked soundly on the door to the back room. A young man with glasses perched on the end of his nose rose to greet them.  
  
"Who is it?"  
  
"Bossuet, and a newcomer. Let us in, Combeferre."  
  
"Very well." Combeferre slid back the bolt on the door and welcomed them inside. One of the other students, whom the others addressed as Courfeyrac, lit a large lamp in the center of the room, and a glass of wine was poured for everyone. Somehow the clinking of bottles and glasses caused a disheveled looking young man asleep in an old armchair, who had been dead drunk, to stir faintly and open his eyes.  
  
"I hear wine. Who's pouring? Is that Feuilly?" He squinted, willing his tired eyes to focus. "I'll take a glass of wine."  
  
"Who's that?" Enjolras asked Bossuet, who, in return, sighed.  
  
"Enjolras, meet Grantaire."  
  
"Is he.drunk?"  
  
"Hardly surprising, you'll find." Remarked Bossuet while pouring himself another glass. 


	3. The Question of Rebellion

It had been almost a year and a half, since Bossuet had taken a then young Enjolras under his  
  
wing. Enjolras was now established in Paris. He had an apartment, and friends, he studied hard, maybe a  
  
little too hard, and his teachers adored him. Still, not all was perfect.  
  
He began to notice, with increasing disdain, that the Society of the Friends of the ABC, his  
  
friends, lacked discipline and order at their meetings. This irritated the perfectionist in him a considerable  
  
amount. While his political convictions never once wavered, the others, excepting a small number, joked  
  
and played, avoiding the pressing matters at hand. They talked about everything, yet did nothing. They  
  
were no more ready to change society for the better, and potentially die in doing so, than he was for next  
  
week's upcoming exam. (The tendencies of his neighbors to go out at all hours had kept him from studying  
  
diligently as he would have liked.)  
  
On this day, he sat in Café Musain listening to the others. Grantaire, at this point, was far past  
  
drunk, rambling on about nothing for what seemed like hours. Enjolras sighed heavily and rolled his eyes  
  
in exasperation. "What is the point?"  
  
"Of what?"  
  
"Of these meetings! If we're just going to sit around, talking, I wouldn't have joined you in the  
  
first place. I've put up with all this for too long, without saying a word. These meetings lack any form of  
  
discipline or structure! Grantaire gets sickeningly drunk, and the rest of us, we talk about doing something,  
  
but do we really do anything? No, never! We have avoided the matter of rebellion long enough. Don't  
  
you see? The time to take action against the oppressive forces, for the people, is now, or it is never!" He  
  
pushed open the door, and headed back to his apartment.  
  
The door slammed behind him, echoing loudly in the silent room. Gradually, the hum of quiet  
  
chatter filled the air. Combeferre was more thoughtful than usual, which was really saying a lot. Although  
  
Enjolras' eloquent outburst had not been specifically directed at him, he was still ashamed.  
  
"He is right, you know."  
  
"Oui, but, what to do now?"  
  
"We could invite him back. Perhaps, with Enjolras as our leader, we could accomplish something  
  
for a greater good?" The others greeted his timid questions with nods of approval. It was unanimous;  
  
Enjolras would lead them. 


	4. Fearless Leader

The next morning, when Enjolras awoke, he heard a curious rapping on the door to his apartment.  
  
Eyelids still heavy with sleep, he stumbled blindly to the door and opened it, surprised to find that he had a  
  
visitor. Combeferre stood before him, looking as though he hadn't slept a wink all night.  
  
"What is so important that you must wake me at this strange hour?"  
  
"Much. We have been thinking, all of us. Your speech, or what have you, last night, was  
  
positively inspired. I do believe it reached even Grantaire." Enjolras sneered.  
  
"Go on."  
  
"I realize, have realized for awhile, that we do lack the discipline and dedication to take action of  
  
any kind. However, we all believe that under the guidance of a great and fearless leader, with unflagging  
  
devotion to the cause of freedom, that we may one day be able to change all this." He looked hopeful.  
  
"You are asking for my help?"  
  
"Essentially, yes. We are. Do you accept?"  
  
"I suppose." He closed the door abruptly, and sat at his desk, recalling Combeferre's words.  
  
Fearless Leader? He was especially puzzled by this new title. He dissected it, turning the words and letters  
  
over in his mind trying to make sense of it all. Fearless Leader. He yawned sleepily and drifted into sleep,  
  
using his open textbook for a pillow. 


	5. Blondeau's Test

When Enjolras awoke for the second time that morning, he realized, in looking at his book, that  
  
final examinations were to take place in half an hour. He grabbed a waistcoat, a few books, and some  
  
papers, barely making it out the door with his shoes on the right feet. The ten-minute jog to the university  
  
was torture for him; it's not that he was not accustomed to running, but, rather, he couldn't stop himself  
  
from worrying. Suppose they had already started exams without him, and Blondeau had assigned him a  
  
failing grade, out of spite? He decided that, whatever the case, he should at least reach the university  
  
before he let his fears get the best of him.  
  
He reached the vast stone courtyard, where, two or so years before, he had met Bossuet. He saw  
  
his friends, Bossuet included, waiting for the doors of the university to be opened, using their spare time to  
  
study. Courfeyrac looked up from his notes, and chuckled good-naturedly at Enjolras' disheveled state.  
  
"What, have you run ten miles this morning? You look a terrible mess." Enjolras sighed.  
  
"Well, thank you. Now that there is nothing I can do about my appearance, I am glad to know that  
  
I look a terrible mess."  
  
"You're welcome." Courfeyrac smiled, knowing full well that he was being a nuisance. Enjolras  
  
sighed in a mixture of irritation and disgust.  
  
"I didn't mean it literally, of course. Never mind. I'm going to drop this line of conversation with  
  
you, and study."  
  
"Then study, and leave me alone!"  
  
"I intend to." It was clear right then that the subject was closed, and Enjolras had had the last  
  
word. Feuilly shot Courfeyrac a warning glance, stating all too clearly that now was not the time to bother  
  
Enjolras.  
  
Gradually, students near the university's doors began to file in, as though being led to walk the  
  
plank of a pirate ship. Enjolras took his usual seat near the back of the room and to the left, and waited  
  
anxiously for Blondeau to pass out the tests. Professor Blondeau, upon erasing the names of a few tardy  
  
students, looked out into the sea of desks and addressed the class.  
  
"As many of you may or may not know, these final examinations," He brandished the stack of  
  
papers in his hand at them, having almost a menacing quality. "will greatly, and I stress the word greatly,  
  
affect whether or not I pass you or fail you. Are we all in understanding of this?" A few nodded their  
  
heads, to show them just how well they understood. The rest of them looked very uneasy. Blondeau  
  
handed out the tests, and said with a short dry laugh, "You may begin now. You have until the end of the  
  
hour." Enjolras immediately began to write in the answers he knew, and he knew the vast majority. A  
  
few questions, however, shook his confidence in his answers greatly. He knew he knew them, but could  
  
not force himself to recall anything of use. He left those answers blank, wishing rather to get a lower grade  
  
than he might have, than to have been wrong in his answer. When the hour was up, he handed in his test,  
  
heaving a great sigh of relief as he did so, and ran to join his friends in the courtyard. He saw them heading  
  
in the general direction of Café Musain; it was but a short walk from the university. That's what made it  
  
an ideal location for their meetings.  
  
At long last, Enjolras caught up with his friends. He overheard what they were speaking about-  
  
the final exams. Combeferre turned to greet him.  
  
"Enjolras, how did it go?"  
  
"Well, I hope." But somehow, he couldn't shake the sickening feeling that Blondeau would try  
  
his hardest to assign him a failing grade. He sighed, while hurrying after the group, on their way to Café  
  
Musain. In only a few short hours, he'd gone from the newest member of a revolutionary society to its  
  
leader. And what's more, he had another final to take the very next day! 


End file.
